The Last Show at the Harbour Cinema – Part 1: Projector Room

The Harbour Cinema had seventy-one years of dust on its velvet seats and a projection booth that smelled of warm metal and old celluloid. Kirsty had worked there for nine years, changing reels, mending tears, and sweeping popcorn out of the aisles at midnight. Now the owners had sold the building, and the final show was on Saturday.

The reporter arrived on Monday, with a notebook, a cheap umbrella and a face that looked as though it had never seen the inside of a cinema before.

"I'm Callum," he said, at the foot of the projection-booth stairs. "The paper sent me to write the obituary."

"It's not dead yet," said Kirsty, from the top of the ladder. "It's just very tired."

"Then it's a very good obituary," said Callum. "Can I come up?"

"You'll get in the way."

"I'll be very quiet," said Callum. "And I'll stop talking the moment you tell me to."

She considered him for a moment, then shrugged and held out a hand to help him up the last steps. The booth was narrow and warm, with two projectors humming like sleepy cats and a single window looking down over the dark auditorium.

For the rest of the week, Callum came up every evening. He sat on an old stool at the back of the booth, notebook on his knee, while Kirsty ran the films. Old black-and-white comedies, a noir she had seen forty times, a Scottish film about a fisherman who fell in love with a lighthouse keeper's daughter. He didn't write much. He watched the screen with his mouth half open, and sometimes, when a joke landed, he laughed out loud and then looked embarrassed.

"You're a terrible reporter," said Kirsty, on the third night.

"I'm a fantastic reporter," said Callum. "I'm just distracted by the best film I've ever seen."

"It's a Hitchcock."

"It's the best Hitchcock," said Callum. "I'm not going to argue with you about it."

She laughed, and turned back to the reel, and felt his gaze stay on her a little longer than the film required.

On Thursday, the projectors stuttered during the second feature. The screen flickered to black, and the auditorium below began to murmur. Kirsty swore under her breath and dived for the spare bulb, and Callum was up off his stool in a second, holding the torch steady while she fixed the lamp.

"Thanks," she said, sweating and grimy.

"Any time," said Callum. He was very close, the torch beam shaking slightly in his hand. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Why did you stay here so long? Nine years, in a booth, changing reels for people who only ever see the picture?"

Kirsty sat back on her heels. The light from the screen flickered across her face.

"Because I like being the one who makes the light happen," she said honestly. "Nobody notices the projectionist. They just see the story. I liked that. It meant I could be part of something without having to be the star."

"That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me all week," said Callum quietly.

"Don't get used to it," said Kirsty, and smiled.

Callum set down the torch, very carefully, on the shelf beside the reel.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you let me stay up here on Saturday, for the last show? Not for the paper. For you. So I can see the final reel run through, and tell you afterwards what it looked like from the seats."

Kirsty's throat tightened. "Yes," she said softly. "But only if you promise not to cry during the credits."

"I'll cry during the credits," said Callum solemnly. "It's a professional obligation."

She laughed, a little unsteadily, and reached for the next reel.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," said Kirsty. "Very green. Now shine that torch on the gate, Callum, and keep the film from burning."

"Yes, boss," he said, and did.